


And I Went

by Mireille



Series: Little Lies [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-01
Updated: 2002-07-01
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8099416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: He said, "Stay."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written before OOTP. Not canon-compliant in any respect.

He said, "Stay."

He was thinner than I'd ever seen him, eyes shadowed, bruised and battered and not at all the handsome young Quidditch star who'd graced the sports section of this morning's Prophet. They'd sent him to the continent--on a bloody broom, in the middle of the night; it was a fucking miracle he hadn't pitched into the Channel from sheer exhaustion. Even more of a miracle that none of our side had caught him during the two weeks he'd been gone. 

But he'd made it back, and it was the off season, so he'd have a chance to sleep. And I was at his flat--had been at his flat, except when I was working, since he'd failed to show up at mine a fortnight before. And he said, "Stay." 

So I did. Because he was Oliver, and it didn't ever matter what I wanted. Not since the day he'd come up to me after we played Ravenclaw, my sixth year, and told me he'd been watching me. Grinned at me in a way that let me know what he'd been thinking, and dragged me off to a deserted corridor without an ounce of shame. Not that I protested. 

We still fought. Still argued and bickered and tried to get points taken off each other's Houses and, at least once, brawled in the corridor outside Flitwick's classroom. But what I wanted didn't matter. There was Oliver Wood, and he wanted *me,* and.... and I was fucked, and I knew it, even then. 

And we never did stop fighting, only it got a bit more serious than the arguments about what Pucey said to one of the Gryffindor girls, or who did what to whom in the last match. It turned into being about him charging off to battle, still trying to avenge Cedric Diggory and probably getting himself killed. About me still working in my dad's shop, which, in the year since this all started, somehow turned into a major message relay for our side. Their side. Someone's side; I'd never been on anybody's side but my own. But the side that was definitely not Oliver's side. 

Oliver was curled up on the corner of the sofa he'd bought at a muggle second-hand shop, not looking at me. "Bell's gone."

I vaguely remembered Katie Bell, mostly as a blur of red streaking past me on her way to our goalposts. Their faces weren't important to me at all; I knew them as reflexes and favorite strategies and obstacles. All of them except Oliver. "How?" I asked. 

"Your lot."

"They're not 'my lot,' Oliver, and you fucking well know it."

"You're not trying to stop them."

"Not a damned thing I can do about it," I pointed out. Again. Arguments like old shoes, comfortable and familiar -- and wearing thin. 

He was disappointed in me--he was always disappointed in me. Fucking Oliver Wood hadn't made me a nicer person, hadn't made me play fair, hadn't made me one of the good guys. Never had, never would. He'd been pushing me for years, and it hadn't worked. It never worked, just reminded me of how soon this would probably blow up in my face. 

He said, "Then you're just as guilty as they are." 

I said, "We're all guilty of something."

He said, "You're not even trying to change things."

I said, "Some things can't be changed."

He said, "Not even for my sake?"

I said, "Especially not for your sake." Damn it, Oliver owned enough of me. Changing sides--as slight as my current allegiance was--would be the death of me, quite literally, and I wasn't handing that over to him just because he asked. I couldn't. 

It wasn't like we were lovers, after all. Just casual enemies who fought and fucked and slept in a tangle of bedclothes and Oliver's damned Quidditch magazines and pale smooth skin that smelled like soap and tasted like pure sex. And woke up next morning to do it all over again. 

He said nothing.

I said, "I can't, Oliver."

He looked at me, for a long time, and he didn't have to say anything. I knew what he wanted to know, and I wasn't going to tell him that. Wasn't going to lie to him, I told myself, because if this conversation proved anything at all, it was that the answer he wanted would be a lie. 

He said, "Got anything to say for yourself?"

I shrugged. "Nothing you don't know already."

He said, "Marcus, I--"

"Don't even try to make me think you believe what you're about to say." 

He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them, they glittered darkly, and his mouth was set in a tight line. 

He said, "Get out."

And I went.


End file.
